For Every Evil (16 page)

“You didn’t see anyone?”

“No. I heard a dog barking, but that was all. When I got inside, I stopped by the stairs and listened. When I didn’t hear anything, I climbed to the top. That’s when I found Hale’s body.”

“Was he still breathing?”

“I don’t think so. I didn’t actually touch him.”

“And you saw and heard nothing?”

“Well … as I was coming up the stairs, I thought I heard a sound — like someone closing a door.”

“Inside the gate house?”

Rudy nodded. “After I realized what had happened, I stepped over to the window — the one next to the filing cabinets. I saw a figure enter the back door of the Micklenbergs’ house.”

The detective’s head jerked up, like an animal picking up a scent. “Could you tell who it was?”

Rudy shook his head. “No. But it was a woman.”

The detective scratched something in his notes. “What was she wearing?”

“A dress. A bright color. Pink maybe. Or red. And a short, dark coat. I don’t remember the color. And she was thin. Not large.”

“Blonde? Brunet?”

“Sorry. I can’t say for sure.”

The detective fixed him with a hard stare. “How well did you know Mr. Micklenberg?”

“Not well. I’d met him a few times at the Chappeldine Gallery. That’s where I work part-time. I’m a freshman at the University of Minnesota.”

“Did you know he was having … marital problems?”

Rudy gave him a blank stare. “No.”

“Did you two get along?”

Rudy could feel the acid in his stomach begin to churn. “If you mean did I like him, the answer is no.”

“Why not?”

“He was … a jerk.”

“Be more specific.”

“He liked to torture people — especially artists. He’d give them a bad review even when they didn’t deserve one.

“Sounds like you know what you’re talking about.”

“I do.”

“Who, for instance?”

Again, Rudy shrugged. “Just artists. Kate Chappeldine, the owner of the gallery, spoke about him. Nobody liked him.”

“You don’t know anyone personally who got one of these bad reviews?”

His eyes fell to the floor.

“Answer the question, Rudy.”

“Well … yes and no.”

“You have to be more specific.”

“It’s just … see, John —”

“John who?”

“Jacobi.”

“The same one you came with tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“Is he a good friend of yours?”

Rudy nodded. This conversational turn was precisely what he was trying to avoid. He was making a mess of things.

“How long have you known him?”

“About two months.”

“Would you say he held a grudge against Hale?”

“No. Absolutely not. See, it’s kind of a long story. John’s got a show at the gallery right now. Hale came by one afternoon to look at his work. He told several people that he thought it was amateurish, that it lacked depth, among other things. But the review he published in the paper was a good one. Hale wouldn’t explain it, even when John called him on the phone to thank him.” Rudy had the sinking sense that he was babbling. He’d already said too much.

The detective leaned forward in his chair. “Did Hale ever do anything to you?”

“To me? What do you mean?”

“Anything that might have made you angry with him?”

He shook his head. “Nah. He was just mean.”

The detective studied him for a long moment and then turned a page in his notes. “When you entered the second floor of the gate house, did you touch anything?”

“No!”

“Did you notice anything unusual? Anything that didn’t look right?”

Rudy scrunched up his face in thought. “Not really.”

“Describe the scene for us.”

“Well, Hale was lying on the floor in back of his desk.”

“Did you see a weapon?”

Rudy shook his head.

“Describe the desk.”

“I think it was pretty cleared of papers. There was a bottle of Scotch. And an ashtray. Kind of a funny-looking one. Painted brass.”

“Anything else?”

“Maybe some crumbs. And when I walked in back of the computer monitor, my hand brushed against it. It felt warm. Like it had just been turned off.”

The detective nodded. “Good. That’s good. What else do you remember?”

Rudy closed his eyes. “I just don’t see anything else.”

“Nothing?” He let the word hang in the air.

“No.”

“What about the positioning of the chairs in the room?”

“I think one of them was pulled up to the desk. Like maybe he’d been talking to someone?”

“Is that your conclusion?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t there.” He glanced at the policeman taking notes. “I don’t suppose — ?”

“What?” asked Detective Cross.

“Well, I mean … I don’t suppose it could be a suicide?”

“We found no weapon.”

Rudy could feel his stomach turn over.

“What did you do after you discovered the body?”

“I went back to the party and tried to find my mother. I thought I should tell her first, since she knows the Micklenbergs better than I do. Her husband called 911 while we went back to the gate house to see if Hale was still breathing.”

“You didn’t tell anyone else?”

He shook his head. “Not until my mother had determined he was dead. She tried to get a pulse, but there wasn’t one. Then we came back to the main house and she found Ivy — that’s Hale’s wife. She broke the news to her privately. A few minutes later you guys arrived.”

The detective finished writing and then looked up. “What kind of coat did you wear tonight, Rudy?”

“My coat? It’s a hunting jacket. Red-and-black plaid.”

“We’ll need to see it.”

“Why?”

“There was a nail sticking out of the rear door. A piece of fabric was caught on it. It may or may not belong to the murderer.”

Rudy’s hand shook as he passed it over his mouth. “You think it was mine?”

“That’s what we need to find out.” The detective stood. “That’s all for now. But we’ll need you to come down to the station sometime tomorrow and sign your statement. Most likely we’ll want to talk to you again. You weren’t planning to leave town, were you?”

“No.”

“Good.” He motioned for the officer to follow him out.

John turned his Blazer into a scenic overlook and stopped. The Mississippi River Valley lay in front of them, vast and black in the weak moonlight Rudy had said very little after the police finished with him. Sensing his need to get away from everyone who might want to ask more questions, John poured Rudy a stiff brandy and waited while he drank it. Then, explaining to Sophie that he’d make sure Rudy got home safely, he’d stuffed his sullen friend into the front seat of his truck and headed across town to 494, then south to Bob Dylan’s famous Highway 61. The lights of Red Wing shimmered in the distance.

“Quite a view,” said Rudy, turning down the radio. “I’d like to come back here sometime when it’s daylight.”

John pointed to the sky. “What do you think of that?”

Rudy leaned forward to get a better look. “The northern lights! I’ve seen them once before, but they weren’t this bright.”

“You have to leave the city to get the full effect.”

Rudy leaned back in his seat. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For kidnapping me.”

John laughed.

“What an evening.”

“Yeah. You don’t have to talk about it. We can just sit here and watch the show.” He could tell Rudy was a little high.

They were both silent for several minutes.

Finally Rudy said, “Did I ever tell you I used to believe Christ was going to return on the Feast of Trumpets, 1989?”

“Pardon me?”

“Yup. I was going to be whisked away into the heavens with the rest of God’s elite. I guess God’s apostle got the date wrong.”

“Who’s God’s apostle?”

“The head of our church. Howell A. Purdis.”

“I see. Well, that’s too bad — for him, I mean.”

“And for everybody who sold their houses and businesses and gave the money to the church in anticipation of the great event.”

“Well, didn’t the church just give it back? I mean, it was their error.”

“No way. I guess you could say that was the first time I had a real argument with my father. I told him I thought it was wrong.”

“What did he say?”

“He told me the people that did it were following their own conscience. God would bless them in the end.”

“In the meantime, they could always go on welfare?”

“I guess.”

John unzipped his leather jacket. “Rudy?”

“What?”

“Well, I mean you sound pretty bitter.”

He shrugged.

“Do you still believe all the stuff you were taught as a kid?”

Another shrug. “Did you know the first time I was ever around a Christmas tree was this winter? Bram and my mother bought a big Norway pine. I felt kind of funny having Christmas dinner with them. It’s a pagan day, you know. Nothing Christian about it.”

“Really?”

“And doctors. We never went to doctors, except once when I was little. I’ve never even taken an aspirin. That is, until last fall. I had to get all these shots before I could attend the university. My dad would have pitched a fit.”

“What did you do when you got ill?”

“We sent for the elders of the church to pray.”

“And if that didn’t work?”

Rudy stretched his arms over his head. “Well, that meant you didn’t have enough faith. If you did, God would heal you. Except, I found out from a friend that some of the top ministers were going to doctors. But the people in the local church areas were still forbidden.”

John shook his head. “You’re lucky you never got sick.”

“I know,” said Rudy. “I had a good friend die of skin cancer. I didn’t realize at the time how treatable it was. She was an older woman. I’d known her since I was little.”

“I’m sorry,” said John.

“Yeah. Such a waste.” He wiped a hand across his eyes. “I used to have to study the Bible an hour every night. And pray two hours a day. We even had a prayer closet. That way Dad could monitor me and Arlene — the woman he married after he divorced Mom.”

“What did you pray about for two whole hours?”

“Oh, sometimes I’d go into the closet and sleep. Other times I’d think about … you know. Sex.”

John grinned. “I did most of my daydreaming in the woods.”

“The thing is, in our church, no one could have sex before marriage. Sometimes I nearly went crazy thinking about it.”

“Did you have a girlfriend in high school?”

He rubbed his hands along the tops of his jeans. “No. Dad wouldn’t have allowed it. We couldn’t be unequally yoked together with unbelievers. I could have dated someone in the church, but … I don’t know. I never did.”

John watched him.

“I really want to have kids,” continued Rudy. “That would be the greatest. How about you?”

“I haven’t given it much thought.”

“I’d make sure they grew up being able to make their own decisions about … life. About God. Not that my father is a bad man. I know he loves me.”

“Do you still believe in God?”

“Yeah. Absolutely. I’ve just got a lot of sorting out to do. I have to make my peace with certain things. It’s hard to explain.” He shifted in his seat. “What about you? Do you believe in God?”

“I’m not sure God means to me what he does to you. Fundamentalists have always seemed like a lot of emotional bullies to me. And these TV evangelists … I can’t stand to watch them. They’re so smug about their ignorance.” He shook his head. “I hope that doesn’t hurt your feelings.”

“No,” said Rudy, looking up again at the sky. “You know, I used to be so sure about everything, about where I fit. My entire life was mapped out for me. I’d go to Purdis Bible College. Graduate and become a minister like my father. I’d marry, have children, preach sermons every Sabbath, attend ministerial conferences, anoint the sick. Everything was decided. I knew with absolute certainty what was right and what was wrong. All I had to do was believe what I was told and my life would be great. But somewhere along the line, things changed.”